Broken Pillars
by Tes-thesula
Summary: The orcs of the Warsong Clan are led into a new assault against the Night Elves of Ashenvale
1. Chapter 1

_**-Months ago-**_

_Thrice-scarred Captain, the might of the Warsong is on the march. The drums beat silent this day and the ravagers think they walk hidden paths, or that the wretched rays of light blind our lambent eyes. _

_Dread warning, thrice-scarred Sentinel; the numbers that gather threaten to flood over our meagre scouts. Even the Chorus of Iron is bedecked for battle._

_Scout Darktide has spied the towers and walls of Warsong Camp and the Splintered Post, naught but children and the lowliest peons remain, in much-tested armour and with rust-pitted weapon. Not a true warrior amongst them._

_Unfurl the Silverwing lest moon-drenched Astranaar drowns in merciless day._

_-Urgent missive delivered to Sentinel Captain Messinal Halfspear from Scout Leader Faiden Whispertongue-  
_

_Most Revered Commander Ravencall,_

_ Upon receiving Scout Leader Whispertongue's missive I ordered the Silverwing companies under my command out to his position to shadow the movements of the Warsong, and to determine their goals if possible. It is my belief that we have as yet remained undetected, and I commend the scouts for their skills, even in this most bright of days._

_The Warsong are heading to the south and east towards the Barrens and the Mor'shan Ramparts. I speculate that Orgrimmar has called up further forces for the assault into Northrend. If so, it leaves the orcish incursion points into Ashenvale very vunerable. I understand it is beyond the remit of my position, but my Silverwing are eager to remove this blight from our blessed groves._

_I shall continue to have my scouts monitor the movements of the Warsong until their purpose becomes clear._

_ By the grace of the Goddess,_

_ Captain Halfspear  
_

_Spear Captain; Vigilance denied, we can go no closer. The greenskinned host travels not to new Orgrimmar, not to mercantile Rachet. A thorn in our side pulled by most hated allies? _

_The Warsong march to the Maw and in such numbers victory is assured._

_Praise be to the Warleader?_

_-Report from Scout Leader Whispertongue to Sentinal Captain Halfspear-  
_

_Most Revered Commander Ravencall,_

_ A most unusual day just past. The Warsong forces marched to the cave system that has come to be known as the 'Maw', on the borders of the Barrens and our own Ashenvale. Since the defeat of the Legion in Kalimdor, the caves have been occupied by a remnant company of demons. They have been trouble to both Horde and Kaldorei for some years now, raiding for resources, their base requiring a large force in order to dislodge – forces that I have not been given leave to command._

_The orcs assembled at the Maw for most of the day and around dusk began the journey back to their camps. Upon the reports of my scouts, I rode to the Maw myself and I can inform you without doubt that the demons are gone._

_It appears they have been utterly annihilated, for not even a single body remains. I am puzzled by this show of force from the Warleader and await your response. _

_However, it seems the opportunity for vengeance on the camps has passed._

_ By the grace of the Goddess,_

_ Captain Halfspear  


* * *

_

There was little to set the Maw apart from any number of the caves that riddled the the termite-mound like hills that sprouted throughout the Barrens. If one had the inclination, you might just be able to make out the crude sigils daubed in some red liquid on either side of the dank, dark opening, but the occasional spring rains had almost washed those back to nothing. The more careful observer, standing there at the entrance, might feel the rolls of heat that the black mouth breathed out or hear the faint echoes of some unknown tongue.

The bones of incautious observers could be found in various chambers of the cave system, their depth one measure of their owner's efficacy.

For all its innocuous appearance, the Maw was a deadly pit. Its inhabitants had withstood all attempts from elf and orc to dislodge them, the narrow cave mouth providing the most potent bottleneck to break charge after charge. That, and the demons seeming apathy had turned the Maw, in the eyes of the leadership on both sides, into a minor nuisance, a problem far down on their list of priorities.

Oh adventurers of all shapes and colours took it upon themselves to venture into that place, some wrong to right, some point to prove. Orc cubs too young to know stupidity from bravery, or an elf too freshly wounded by loss to think – they were all rarely seen again.

* * *

Rutgar swilled the lukewarm water around his mouth, spitting it out onto the dry, dusty earth. It came out brown, but he didn't have to think about that long before it was sucked into the thirsty, thirsty soil.

It had not been a long march, nor, compared to his experience, a terribly diffcult one…though trying to keep the movement of that many battle-hungry orcs as quiet as possibly had not been easy.

He rubbed his knuckles. It amazed him that after all he had been through, that it still pained him to break a jaw. You would have thought his fist would be used to it now.

No matter.

The wide, mottledskinned orc brushed some of the dust from the march from his face, restoppered the flask and threw it back to the pup who has offered it to him, the smiling face lopsided with swollen jaw. He shook loose the muscles of his thick, short neck, like nothing more than a grazing buffalo.

Bigger things to worry about now.

Rut pulled the heads of his hatchets loose and let them drop back into their belt loops. His hands unconsciously danced over his armour, pulling straps, checking buckles and testing plates. It was a ritual every soldier had gone through a thousand and one times before, and Rut was nothing if not a good soldier. He strode towards the Warleader, surrounded by his Chorus, spitting once more to punctuate his arrival.

The banners of the Warsong flapped fitfully in the desultory breeze.

The lion-yellow eyes of the Warleader, his warleader turned towards him.

'It is just as I remember it Lord. Time will have only made them weaker since I was last blooded here, but that hole will prevent us from bringing our numbers to bear,' Rutgar rubbed the back of his neck with one mottled paw, 'We'll win, but it's gonna be messy.'

He knew that his warleader knew all this, anybody with half a brain could see that attacking a cave mouth barely three men across filled with demons would be costly, but he didn't even know why they were here.

The amber eyed orc simply turned away, stony face expressionless.

Spirits below, no one knew why the Warleader had mobilized the Warsong for this, most were just happy at the chance to kill some demons.

Not that there would be much fight in them.

Even when Rutgar had come here last, years ago now, in a routine patrol, the scum had seemed…lacklustre. Which for demons, was very out of character. Oh they had fought well enough, driven off the orcs with roars that rumbled straight to your chest and blows that could shatter steel.

But there had also been a diffidence…the odd feeling that it did not really matter if they lived or died.

Every so often, Rutgar had heard, one of the creatures would wander out, down towards the Crossroads, or north into Elven lands. Deserters he had thought, but it was more than that. The demons must have known that they would never be allowed or able to reconnect with their kin, heck, the Portal was on a different continent! No, these demons were deserting on life, giving up.

Rutgar had no time for them.

His silent reverie was broken by a grunt.

The Warleader was staring at the cave entrance, where two bulky felguard had emerged, their twin maces held almost casually in meaty fists. The blue-skinned, muscle-bound demons glanced up at the ranks of orcs before settling on boulders to either side of the entrance. They were in no hurry to engage the greenskins.

'Rutgar,' the broad orc stiffened and turned towards his lord, 'you and the warlock will accompany me.'

Rut shared a glance with the ancient, misshapen Raleek the Spurned – though to be honest, the warlock's sneer from under his cowl was the only reply he got.

'Accompany you…where Warleader?' he asked

The Spurned let out a hacking cough that could have been a laugh. His lord just smiled that closed mouth smile and pointed towards the cave.

'Down there Warleader?'

'Down there Rutgar.'

He cocked his head, the sniggering from Raleek was not helping his understanding of the Warleader's thoughts.

A hand clapped onto his shoulder.

'A leader needs a standard bearer Rutgar, and you shall be mine.' A smooth wooden pole was shoved into his hands, a banner furled at the crosspiece.

Rutgar was reeling, what was the Warleader thinking? Going down there alone? Rut was confident in his own abilities to kill demons, and the Warleader's skills and Raleek could probably conjure something dangerous, but those monsters could pour out of that cave like a foul flood.

But the Warleader was already striding down the slope towards the Maw, the Spurned hobbling along as best he could. Rutgar hurried after them.

His warleader had planted himself about twenty yards away from the Maw hands clasped behind his back, and the damn fool hadn't even removed the peace loop from the from the hilt of his broadsword. Raleek gasped his way to just behind his right shoulder. The felguard began to stand, the looks on their tiny faces one of wary confusion, as they readied their hideous maces. Rutgar had one hand on a hatchet as he closed on the left shoulder of his lord.

'Unfurl my banner Rut.'

He didn't let his eyes leave the two demons as he reached up for the leather strap that would release the proud Warsong mark. He yanked down on the strap.

There was a silence where there should have been the boasts and battle cries that was the song of war. The demons looked even more confused than before, glancing at each other as if trying to decide what to do.

Rutgar looked up, and his jaw dropped.

He didn't even know there was a white banner in the Camp. He stared at the back of his lord.

_What was he doing?_

'Bring out your master,' the Warleader growled.

The eyes were seen first, easily nine feet from the uneven ground, glowing a hungry blood red. The horns were next, emerging into the light, ugly jagged curves that added another two foot to the Dreadlord's height. Next came the pallid, strangely beautiful, completely hairless face. The beast kept his wings wrapped around his body like some kind of wretched old leather cape.

Saemonvragas was not the most powerful of Nathrezim, not like always-starving Mal'Ganis or great Mephistroth, but even still, licks of darkness rolled off him, probing at their feet, though they recoiled from the Spurned.

White lips peeled back and a vivid red tongue snaked out from between needle-like fangs.

'Why have you come here, slave?' the Dreadlord's voice, was the voice of temptation itself, speaking in flawless orcish.

Rut stiffened at that, fingers closing around hatchet head, ready to draw.

The Warleader only chuckled, low and long.

'Look further demon, you see what I have brought here, what destruction I could order here. There is no doubt to the outcome should the Warsong be loosed upon your,' the Warleader's lips broke into a hint of a sneer, '…kingdom.'

The Dreadlord's perfect visage split into an inhuman snarl and a clawed hand shot out from the living cloak, the smallest finger missing. 'You come to mock then? I could take your souls and inflict such torture on them before even your dogs could descend the slope.'

The orc raised his hands placatingly, 'I am the Warleader. I am not like those who have come before. I have not come here to slay, though it would not pain me to order it – I have come to talk, to deal. I can offer you an escape, I can offer you your lives.'

Rutgar, one of the Chorus of Iron, left hand of the Warleader, veteran of a hundred and one battles, felt his mouth go dry.

'I can offer you a purpose.'

* * *

They were back on the march just after dusk, leaving nothing in their wake. Let the Kaldorei puzzle over that in their trees.

There were grumblings, of course there were, some wounds were far too fresh for the what the Warleader ordered. But grumbles were all there was, the ties of loyalty were too strong for anything but obedience. For this man they had denied the Warchief, Thrall – had stayed when all others had sailed across the frozen seas.

His plans trailed down unseen paths. They could not know his thoughts, but they knew that wherever he led, they would follow.


	2. Chapter 2

**-Yesterday-**

Rut spat and pulled a strap tight as the wyvern glided to the ground, claws scrabbling for purchase, deadly tail weaving from side to side.

Good, they were all here. He nodded Bedek over as the ugly orc unhitched himself from the flying harness and the pair began the trudge up the snow-covered path to the tavern, where the rest of Rut's squad awaited them, no doubt drinking more of the cheap goblin boarpiss.

Say what you want about goblins though. Say they have no sense of honour, and that they would sell their own mother for a clipped copper, if you paid them well enough, they delivered. In fact, they had done better than expected, the orcs had been gathered in Everlook faster than they had planned, though it had cost them enough.

No matter, thought Rutgar, their time would come soon enough.

He turned his shoulder to fit his wide frame through the goblin-made door and looked with an appraising eye over his crew. Apart from himself, there were four other members of the Chorus of Iron, named warriors all. Dog-ugly Bedek, the walking mountain that was Harn, Sosa, who denied all his advances , the bloodthirsty bitch, and of course Scavenge.

They were all decked out in high-quality mail and boiled leather – no plate today – and were, as Rut expected, drinking only water if anything at all. The other five orcs along had all been pulled from the ranks, capable enough warriors but apparently not sensible enough not to drink goblin beer before a mission.

There was a time and a place for alcohol, and a time for clear thoughts and steady hands. Rut expounded on the concept by introducing one of the idiot's forehead to the hard wood of the table.

'Time to move runts.'

From Everlook, it was a hard jog south. Rut had scouted the area a week earlier with Harn so knew what he was looking for, the fallen pillar, the ghostly lights and he halted his squad just off the road. It was coming up to summer, so the snow was treacherous, veined through with melt water that made the going slippery and threatened to take your feet from under you, so the approach up the slope was deliberate and slow, and all the orcs but Scavenge were breathing heavily.

The distinct ring of weapons sliding clear of scabbards and sheathes, the nocking of bows.

The first of the moonkin they came across was sitting, it's clumsy paws building some structure in the wet snow. Three arrows simultaneously thudded into its chest, and it could only let out a weak plaintive hoot before it tumbled onto its side, dead.

Someone had chuckled, 'I thought these things were supposed to be dangerous Rut?'

The commander decided to ignore that remark, the pup would soon see just how dangerous the owlbears could be. Rut was not fooled by the astral blue and white plumage, or the wide innocent eyes, these things were wild animals, animals whose beaks could shear through bone and iron alike.

The next one surprised them all. It had been sleeping and was completely covered in snow when it had reared up and clawed open the face of the nearest orc. Arrows punched into it from short rage while swords and axes bit deep into its flesh. It had keened loudly as it died, and the hill had filled with the noise of answering hoots.

After that they had been methodical, mechanical in their slaughter. The moonkin came charging down the slope, or from their caves, their wide eyes narrowed and talons hooked and sharp, but for all their rage and enormous, bear-like strength, they were no match for the square of trained soldiers and their chopping weapons and deadly arrows.

Rut dropped his hatchets back into their loops on his belt as Scavenge pulled his sword from the throat of the last of the moonkin, needing to push his boot into its beak to wrench the blade free.

The snow around him was pink with blood and gore and dotted with the large blue feathers that had made up the owlbear's plumage. He drew off his helmet and wiped his brow. Funny how despite the cold he could still manage to work up such a sweat. He coughed a laugh and pointed out four orcs, none of them with a name worth shit and told them to gather up the bodies. Oh, and to take off the heads.

Needed something to welcome the elves when they arrived after all.

Harn was already standing by the altar and so Rutgar strode over to join him, settling one mottled hand on the gigantic orc's shoulder. Around him, the rest of the squad had assembled their shovels and were being ordered into positions by Sosa, her voice surprisingly feminine.

'Whatcha think Harn?' Rut said, eyeing the heavy slab of stone.

The big man shrugged, 'One or two cracks should do it, but the Spurned said we should be ready before.'

Rut nodded, 'Aye, but we can get it on the ground now.' He shoved Harn off to one side of the altar stone before settling his hands underneath the other.

Eyes locked with Harn's, he counted slowly under his breath before straining, arm muscles bulging like river washed stones under rough leather as he and Harn struggled with the solid weight.

Ragged breaths through clenched teeth before a final burst of effort, and the stone thumped to one side.

There was a faint rustle of wind, stirring the strewn feathers and then the light changed, the atmosphere lifting, as if a blue veil had been lifted from a lantern.

Rut grinned at Harn, 'I think we pissed her off.'

The big orc laughed at that and patted the upturned altar, 'Then she's going to hate us for what's coming.'

The rest of the preparations took about another hour to complete, but they were undisturbed in their work. The heads of the shrine's guardians were piled up beside the legs of the old altar, their blessed blood allowed to seep into the soil and stain the rocks, while their bodies were stacked up to one side and prepared for burning. The spirits of Fire would feast well this day.

Harn unlimbered his hammer while Bedek held the nail that would drive into the altar stone and, hopefully, crack it apart.

'Why is it me who has to hold this thing?' Bedek had asked.

''Cause you're the only one who hasn't got the looks to lose Bedek,' had been Sosa's reply.

Contrary to Harn's boasts, it had taken three swings of his great hammer before a loud crack had sundered the heavy silence and the altar stone was shattered into four uneven pieces.

A loud crack that Raleek had been certain that every nearby priest of Elune would sense.

The orcs quickly disappeared.

* * *

The response of the Kaldorei had been swift. Four priests, three full sisters and one male acolyte had instantly felt the despoiling of Elune's sacred moon-touched stone and insisted on riding to the shrine.

Almost the full complement of Starfall Village's sentinels mounted up their wintersabres to accompany the priests on the journey. They made good time, arriving at the foot of the slope only hours after the dreaded blow had been struck.

The Sentinels had ensured the shrine was clear before allowing the revered priests up, their pale faces the only sign of what was to come. Leaving one young guardian for the holy foursome, the other soldiers had ranged outwards, looking for some sign of the perpetrators of this obscenity. The net was cast very wide, for almost no signs of their movements could be found.

The priests had wept unashamedly when they had seen what had befallen the guardians of Elune's shrine, the noble giants humiliated by this unseen foe.

While the priests had bent over the remains of the altar, trying to work out some way to reconsecrate the shrine before the Goddess was forced from it entirely, the young warrior Moongood wandered about, his eyes trying to avoid the charred distended bodies of the owlbears. The smell was appalling; for all that it made his mouth water.

He strode to the very edge of the clearing and was a bit surprised when his foot pushed through the snow and touched against something almost soft.

Did it just cough?

Suddenly, the snow exploded around him, dark shapes coming from under the white cloak, he was flung from his feet, and could not even cry out before a hatchet split his nose and ended his life in a flash of mind-blowing pain.

The priests might have fared better, for their anger had been stoked by the sheer outrage of the crime committed and opalescent shields of silver moonlight jumped around them to reflect iron and steel. However, it was not to be, for the orcs had brought with them a shaved knuckle in the hole.

As they summoned the wrath of the Goddess, their powers linking to exact divine justice, there was the concussion of heaving magic, and a wave of ruby red flames, gibbering with skeletal, grasping hands roared around them, grey, cancerous cracks appearing in their shields. They screamed but their defenses were shattered by relentless attacks, the demonic magic leaving snow unmelted but scorching skin. The imp that had been hidden in a soul shard, cackled and capered, the twisting nether seething as it conducted through its twig like arms.

One priest was opened from navel to throat by a single stroke of Scavenge's two handed sword, others fell to the demoncant, while the acolyte was chopped to pieces by three orcs.

Alas, the sentinels had ranged too far, seeking an enemy that had not run, but had waited, the breaking of the altar only the first of the crimes they were to commit.

Alas, by the time they returned to the shrine, the enemy was gone, fled to Everlook and the safety of goblin neutrality, winging their way back to Ashenvale.

Alas, all they were to find were four more heads, one for each leg of the soiled altar. Of the warrior? He had been cut up for trophies, fingers, ears and tongue all taken.

* * *

_Listen well Rut. It is not enough to kill their warriors, to defeat their armies. No, for a people will continue to fight as long as they have something to set their back to, something to hold onto when all else seems lost, the heart of their people._

_The Kaldorei, the Children of the Stars…they have their forests and nature's blessing, their ancestor wisps, the Goddess Elune, their immortality…and they have already lost so much._

_To defeat them, to really destroy them, the rest of these pillars must be broken, and one by one I shall do so, until their hearts are shattered._

_And a body without a heart is already dead._


	3. Chapter 3

…_a demon has been spotted close to Forest Song. Gather your blades, rendezvous with Scout Ayal'ashay at the broken pillar. The creature will not see the dawn…_

_You are the wrath of the Kaldorei in this…_

She could see why the small folk feared them so.

Silanah allowed her lips to twitch into the semblance of a smile as she ran. She reveled in the rush of air past her ears, through her closely cropped hair, the pounding of her heart in her chest, the stretch and pull of her eons-hardened muscles. She was a Sentinel, had been for many lifetimes, but sometimes the armour of duty felt like a cage and the freedom of running, of muscles burning, was a brief escape.

Yes, she could see why the small folk were unsettled by them.

Despite wearing her full complement of delicately woven chain, and with her glaive strapped tightly across her back, Silanah made almost no noise as she flew through the trees, and in spite of the keenness of her ears, she could only just hear the footfalls of her sisters behind her.

The death they carried this night would be delivered on silent wings.

She padded to a halt as the clearing neared, Maivera passing her on her right, the swordswoman's piercing blue eyes ever watchful as she scanned the surrounds, hand on the grip of her mother's sword. Without order, Blossom had already unhitched her age-old wisp-shaped bow from over her arm, the glossy purple wood straining silently as she tested the pull. Apparently satisfied, the markswoman pulled an arrow from her quiver and sighted along the shaft.

Only Nevarial approached her, the white-haired ancient coming close enough to speak in a whisper.

'Something is wrong here Sir. Where is Ayal'ashay?'

Silanah looked back at the clearing, where the faintly-glowing pillar lay in the green embrace of the moss. She could sense nothing awry, but Nevarial was the oldest elf she knew personally, and she had supposedly fought in more battles than there were stars in the sky. In fact, the reason Silanah had requested such a small complement for this mission was that Nevarial would be coming with them, for she was lethal with any weapon in hand. If Nevarial said there was something wrong, then there was something wrong.

Silanah's hand trailed unconsciously behind her back, closing gently around the ridged grip of her double-bladed glaive as made to say something.

The wind changed.

They all smelled it at once and Silanah had already drawn her curved blades as she turned, her muscles tense. The polished silver edge sheared through the green, anger-twisted face of the orc, and its cleaver dropped from nerveless fingers. But more and more were pouring from in between the trees, the overpowering smell flooding her senses.

She blocked a low strike towards her thigh and was about to thrust through the beast's stomach when something immensely heavy cracked against the back of her skull. She was spun onto her back, armoured feet thundering around her.

Darkness crowded the edges of her vision, pulsing with the pounding of her heart, which was all she could hear.

_What was going on? Why are all these people fighting…_

She could only watch as Blossom loosed shaft after shaft at close range, her full lips streaming blood. It was only when Silanah noticed that she was no longer pulling on the strong of her bow, her arms merely jerking in a mockery of the motion, that the downed Sentinal saw the axe head lodged in the archer's back.

Maivera was engaged with a blue-skinned monstrosity, a single horn jutting out from its forehead – the demon they had been lured here to kill. As she watched, the felguard snatched the thin white blade in one gauntleted fist, and pulverized the swordswoman's severe features against the spikes and protuberances of his hell-forged armour.

Her vision clouding with tears, Silanah sought out the last of her small squad. Her cry choked in her throat as black bolts flitted towards Nevarial, but the ancient warrior was as leaves in the wind, twisting and spinning, the arrows sailing past her lithe body. At the apex of the spin, her arm shot out, fingers stiff, crushing cartilage and flesh of the throat of an onrushing orc, his spear jabbing uselessly under her arm. She ducked low, always moving, sweeping up a discarded sword and dragged it across the belly of another attacker. His steaming bowels flopped to the ground.

She was a whirlwind, blade flashing everywhere.

Out of the corner of her eye, Silanah could see an orc stalking closer to Nevarial. Unlike the others, he was naked from the waist up, a study in perfect orcish anatomy. He wielded a long, thin bladed two handed sword, its tip oddly squared off.

He attacked with a sweeping strike that Silanah could almost feel jarring through her own arms. Even with his blade's unwieldy size, he chopped with blistering speed, the other orcs backing away to give him room to swing his sword's length.

Stupid orcs.

Nevarial had more fighting experience that all of the enemies arrayed against her…put together. She parried every one of the orc's attacks and responded with her own, exploiting her blade's shorter length by getting in close. His blade clanged off hers, recoiling backwards.

_There_

Nevarial saw the opening, turning her wrist and thrusting outwards to impale the orc's chest.

The look of surprise on her face almost broke Silanah's heart.

Her oppponent's chest was no longer in front of her. His footwork was exemplary, stunning even. Such arrogance to think that someone so young could not be her equal in skill.

_Hubris then…_

That was the last thought to slide through Nevarial's mind as the orc's blade crashed through her back, ending thousands of years of life.

At that point, Silanah found it easier to succumb to the embrace of darkness, rather than being forced to witness.

* * *

Anduin tied back his sweat-heavy hair. He had been raised in the internment camps - hence his human name – and would much rather be spitting some pink scum over these purple elves, especially since pink scum didn't tend to kill three brothers for every one of them you poked.

Thank the ancestors for Scavenge, that's all he could say now. The purple death-dealer had been heading his way when the Chorusman had made his move. Anduin had been lucky not to piss himself in relief.

The Blademaster was looking at him now, grinning in that mad way of his after a fight. What kind of guy filed all his teeth into points anyway? Scavenge was the only orc he knew who did that. He was about to acknowledge his saviour when a tall shadow fell across him – a cold,wet chill settling on his shoulders.

Anduin did piss himself then, the Dreadlord's voice a hoarse, seductive whisper in his ear.

'This one. Her heart is strong, it will suit me perfectly.'

He didn't bother turning around. It seemed to him that Saemonvragas took some kind of sick pleasure out of tormenting him, especially when it meant shaming him in front of his brothers.

Thank the ancestors that he was wearing leather and chain leggings. Thanks the ancestors for the darkness of the night, that was all he could say now.

Damn that Dreadlord, he would be squelching all the way back to the Post now.

* * *

_Commander Ravencall,_

_When the patrol failed to report back into Astranaar, a full complement of Sentinels was sent out to look for them, led by Captain Halfspear herself. They were soon found, as was the body of Scout Ayal'ashay, an arrow found piercing his lung. Only one survivor was recovered, Squal Leader Silanah Riversong, who was able to illuminate events. Apparently the squad was ambushed by orcs while out hunting for a demon roaming far from Felfire Hill. _

_Unfortunately, Sentinal Riversong passed from her wounds only a few nights later. Captain Halfspear was at her side at the time and wishes you to know that she seemed at peace at the end. May she find joy in Elune's embrace._

_Captain Halfspear conveys her apologies that she is not writing this message herself, but she has suffered from an illness these past nights and is very weak yet._

_ By the grace of the Goddess,_

_ Lieutenant Neverfall_

_

* * *

_

_Rutgar found the Warleader on a balcony overlooking the clearing grounds of the lumber camp, the stripped landscape stretching in front of him like a tapestry of his accomplishments. He did not turn as the orc spoke._

'_It was always about the Dreadlord wasn't it Lord?' Rut asked, striding to stand at his warleader's shoulder, 'None of the other demons mattered, they were just baggage you had to find a place for.'_

_The lion-eyes did not waver from their apprehension of the landscape, the lips not even twitching._

'_And now you have an agent inside Astranaar, a leader no less.' The broad shouldered orc bowed his head, 'I apologize for my lack of faith, my endless complaints at the demons' presence.'_

'_What are your orders Lord?'_

_The Warleader smiled, tusks jutting out._


	4. Chapter 4

He had been one of the ghost white hunters of the forest, the unchallenged alpha of the most fearsome of packs. Colossal had been his strength and limitless his endurance. He had the pick of the females for his mates and countless had been the pups he had fathered, long-limbed and high-shouldered all. He could race down a stag and, with his pack arrayed at his back, send even the largest bear lumbering away.  
But for all his speed and strength, he could outrun, nor outfight the onrush of time.  
There had been an age where it would have taken a mere look to send any challenger whimpering away, tail between their legs, but they grew more bold as they sensed his weakness – the harsh pant of his breathing after the hunt, the new found nervousness when they approached. He had recalled back to when he was young, so long ago now, his burgeoning rage at the alpha, doddering and old, he made the pack weak. The same instinct would be in the minds of his rivals, but he wanted to hold on, the selfish, oh so selfish last grip on his youth – the memories of ascension.  
The challenge, when it came, was not unexpected – a gaze met when there should have been servile deference. He knew that he was too weak to win, but pride prevented him from simply bowing his head.  
The fight had been swift and brutal, both wolves left heaving in pain, and he had a glint of satisfaction when he had seen the avarice and calculation in the eyes of the watching males. This new alpha's reign was destined to be a short one, his jaws had seen to that.  
He growled weakly and tried to raise his head as felt long fingers push into the fur at his neck, but the pain was too much and his heavy head slumped back to the mossy forest floor. It did not matter anyway, though his eyes grew dim his nose could still smell and the newcomer smelt of pack, smelt of the warmth of mother's deep fur and nourishing milk, a smell he had thought he had forgotten.  
The pain was fading now as the darkness spread, but he thought he could see his brothers and sisters ahead of him, waiting for him. A pack of strong females and powerful males awaited him, their alpha. He rose to his paws and loped towards them, jaws opening, the howl of savage joy tearing into the night sky…

The druid tangled her fingers through the thick, white fur of the old Ghostpaw, watching the last light of life leave his storm grey eyes and the deep chest cease its shallow movements.  
There were times when the Balance was a harsh master to serve. There was no doubt she could have healed this proud wolf, restored the strength to his potent heart and make the red splashes of blood on his rich white coat the only memories of the gashes that now lay beneath.  
But to do so would be counter to everything she had been taught, all she knew to be true of the cycle of nature. This prince of the forest had served the Balance his whole long, proud life and would continue to do so with his fall. His pack would endure, the legacy of his blood one that would terrorise the other denizens of the forest for years to come.  
Such a powerful beast. She had passed the split ichor of his battle with a giant forest spider. Even with his wounds he had driven off the arachnid, though it had cost him his life. The Balance takes away.  
But the Balance also gives.  
She had shaped a small corner of the Dream for this wolf, a world where he was strong and young again. Where his soul could run with a pack once more, where prey was ever plentiful and they were masters unchallenged. A small gift perhaps, but it cost her little to do.  
She would sit by him a while longer. Let the eaters of the dead wait for this meal yet.

* * *

The orcs were further west than the orders had given them leave to be, and indeed, had the Warleader known that they had ventured out in search of a stag no less, rather than completing their assigned mission, well, with the demons amongst their numbers now, there was no end to the punishment he could inflict upon them.  
The two orcs weren't thinking about this however; they had heard rumours of a silver-pelted stag in this region of Ashenvale and Cort had spotted the largest hoof-print he had ever seen. Even so, they had been about to turn back to their ordered location when the hunter had seen the telltale scrape of antlers on bark. He sucked in air appreciatively – no matter what colour this stag was, it would be quite a prize.  
He had been about to push through some brush when his partner, the axeman Sawdust, had grabbed his arm. Meeting Cort's gaze, he had pointed silently through the trees.  
There was a night elf woman, crouched over some kind of wolf, wounded by the looks of things.  
The two orcs grinned at each other. They both knew, it having been beaten into their skulls enough times, that woman meant warrior amongst the elves, but she didn't appear to be carrying any weapons, and wasn't wearing a scrap of armour, just a long leather skirt, and some kind of straps that crossed her back under her rich, dark green hair. She would make easy pickings, out here all alone, unarmed, and maybe when they were done with her, they would get rewarded for bringing back a captive.  
First things first though. He looped the leather of his bone-studded mace strap around his wrist and Sawdust tightened his grip on his double-headed axe.  
Damn their ears! The elf had stood and turned after just one step towards her, the smooth skin of her face creased in an expression of faint confusion. The large silver eyes did not hold even a hint of fear though, and for some reason that sent the blood pounding into Cort's ears, muffling everything else. No fear? He would soon teach her that the most dangerous thing in this forest was the orcs!  
Sawdust had stepped ahead of him, dark eyes locked on the elf, axe held back in a position that would allow him to chop into her in a moment. Not one to mess around, that Sawdust, which was odd, considering how he had earned his name. They were about ten steps away from her when she raised her arms, palms up, a gesture of peace it seemed to Cort.  
But by the Spirits he wanted her now! The stretch of flat, smooth purple of her stomach, the thin, graceful arms. He wanted to see her legs and pull off that headband, let her hair cascade free. He mumbled to Sawdust, telling him not to rough her up too much before they had their fun.  
Sawdust was slightly ahead of him when it happened, so Cort's view was obscured, but it looked like the ground between them bulged and then _reared_ up. His gaze swept to the elf whose arms were no longer loosely held, but rigid, fingers splayed as if pushing against some great weight.  
The ground continued to rise, building up to a height to match them, and he could see that it was a wall of water, shot through with the detritus of a forest stream, plant and animal matter. Then she heaved her arms towards them.  
Sawdust took the brunt of it, but event to Cort, standing on one side it was like being charged into by a kodo. It hit them with a wet smack, the small stones, bones and ropes of roots pummeling them. The axeman was thrown straight backwards, tossed like an unruly child, crashing into a tree two man heights up and bending around it with a sickening, wet crunch. Cort was spun about, cart-wheeling through the air to land face first in some thankfully soft leaves.  
He was drenched, soaked right through to the bone, the water somehow seeming to get everywhere, even into his lungs. He staggered to his feet, coughing up water and weaving in place. Sawdust didn't look like he would be getting up anytime soon, his neck was bent back at an odd angle and his fall from the branches would have broken his leg anyway.  
Cort narrowed his eyes at the bitch. One of their damn shamans then – he had heard they were all male, but apparently he was wrong. He hoped she didn't really think that she was safe now that she had knocked him about a little – he was Warsong!  
She cocked her head as he roared and charged towards her, an unsettlingly indifferent expression that caused him to falter for a second and miss her closing one hand into a fist.  
There was the hiss of whips through air and roots sprang at him, winding around him. At first he simply barreled through them, his powerful orcish muscles pushing him on like a bear through cobwebs. But more and more of the rope-like vine-green roots burst through the soil, and their combined strength dragged him to a halt, pinning back his arms as slower, thicker brown tree roots coiled around his legs like fat serpents.  
He was trapped, barely a yard away from he woman, who blinked owlishly at him.  
A dreadful realization hit Cort then. What rank foolishness to believe that _any_ Kaldorei was unarmed or defenceless here, in their forests? They were born of it and they tended to it, it was their weapon and their home.  
He was actually going to die.  
Even if this conclusion was shown on his face, the elf's expression did not change, only a flash of emerald green swimming through her silver eyes as she exerted her power. Cort flinched and began to struggle as the roots tightened their hold on him, the jaw-clenching pain of a thousand tiny barbs and thorns unfurling and growing into his body. He could feel himself pierced in everywhere, and weakening as his blood pumped down his thighs, his wrists and his neck, but he would not give her the satisfaction of crying out – he was orc, he was Warsong.

_…these forests must be razed…the Warleader knows.._

_

* * *

_

Nhaera only relaxed her grip on the orc when she was sure he was dead. Her heart had long stopped pounding in her chest, not out of fear or pity, but something far more primal. She had longed to cast off this skin, semble into a form more suited to exacting the toll of lives on these two orcs. She hungered to ride the silken muscles and liquid grace of her feral aspect and it had taken far more discipline to resist than she was comfortable admitting.  
She sighed and watched the roots and vines slowly, organically unwrap from the orc, withdrawing back into the soil that she knew they did not spring from. Soon too would the water she had summoned filter back to the Dream, the medium of all her powers.  
Better to serve the Balance with a mind clear with purpose than with the raw simplicity of a beast, she reassured herself, though it sounded hollow against her earlier need.  
The two orcs were obviously from the Warsong Camp and she wondered what they were doing so far west, so far from their usual patrols. She crouched by the first orc, the one slain by her roots and quickly patted him down, his clothes now only damp with blood.  
Nothing, and she moved to the other body, the one that carried a small hide bag.  
She found little on his person, a piece of parchment with a crudely drawn map the only thing of interest. She thrust her hand into the small sack to pull out whatever was within when she recoiled, clutching her hand and hissing with pain. The thing inside physically pained her to touch.  
Careful now, she upended the bag, making sure that its contents would not fall against her. A small stone object thumped to the moss, perhaps two hands lengths long and another wide.  
She stared at it, though it was fashioned of the earth, it did not look to be a part of it, wrapped in carvings of what appeared to be chains, though as she looked closer, they were actually formed of a kind of script, a script that danced and twisted, evading her attempts to decipher it.  
She suddenly recalled why the object's shape had startled her. It looked like a totem, though it had none of the aura of health that had surrounded the others she had experienced.  
The orcs she had just killed left her mind entirely, nature would soon claim them, and they were worthy of no more heed than that. Nhaera, using the hide bag as a glove, carefully picked up the totem. Perhaps the Prophet would be able to shed some light on it and whatever it was the orcs were planning.  
Dreaming of flight, she took to the winds.


	5. Chapter 5

**-**_**Years earlier, Draenor**_**-**

It was hard, as a child, to practice the patience necessary to become a shaman.  
When Raleek had taken me as his apprentice for my quickness of mind, at first I had been proud. Proud and excited, none of my friends were clever enough to be chosen and they would none of them become a shaman, one of those mysterious and powerful figures who commanded the elements and stole the lightening from the vault of the sky.  
My excitement soon plunged into disappointment. How could it not? I had known of Raleek, the clan shaman, before I had been chosen, of course, but I looked at him with new eyes as his student, compared him anew against what I _thought_ a shaman should be.  
Raleek failed on every count.  
He was not the old and enigmatic figure he should have been. No, he was no more than 30 summers past his First Blodding and had none of the lines of ancient wisdom that I now expected. Where I had wanted a gaze that looked ever to the distance, at far off mysteries with eyes that crackled with puissance, his were ever crinkled with humour, and they seemed to focus entirely on whoever the shaman was conversing with. He was short and unclean, with dirt staining his hands and under his fingernails. Looking at him with fresh eyes, he looked less like my image of a shaman and more like a peon.  
I was no fool though, I knew to become a shaman was to become a respected figure to the clan; your advice sought, your favour fought for. And I thought I knew where that respect came from – power, the shamans command over the spirits, and his hold over life and death itself. I would endure the indignity of being taught by Raleek if it meant one day being initiated into the secrets of the shaman's abilities.  
But it had been hard to be patient.  
As my friends and peers were inducted into the warrior societies and hunters lodges of the clan, and their skills quickly burgeoned, their ropey children's muscles bulking out and their new weapons swinging proudly at their hips, I trudged around the plains at the heels of my master, being taught the appearance and use of various herbs, the history and ancestor stories of our clan, over and over. I longed, no I _ached_ to learn some small calling up of an earth spirit – something I could show to my friends and say 'Look, see, for all you skill and strength, you cannot harness such power.' Something to make feel more like a man, rather than the feeble child I was becoming, head heavy with useless facts.

It is the conceit of childhood to think that one can be trusted with responsibility at a young age, for the child does not have a true understanding of the consequences of failing that responsibility. I believed I was ready for the shaman's power, even though every demonstration showed me I was not.  
One day we came to a river and though it was not deep, the footing was treacherous and the current longed to sweep away your feet and drag you against the rocks.  
'We must cross, you and me student. I will bargain with Water.'  
My breath almost caught in my throat, and the palms of my hands grew damp with excited sweat. Finally, I was about to witness the power of the Shaman. He would walk upon the surface of the river like it was solid rock, buoyed up by the water spirits within.  
I had to muffle my disappointment when my master simply waded into the river, robe swirling and tugged by the current as he picked his way carefully to the other side where he turned to wait for me, bare feet black with river mud.  
There was a broad, toothy smile on his face as I struggled up the bank. I had lost a sandal in the crossing and my irritation must have shown on my face for he clapped a hand on to my shoulder and drew me up.  
'You expected something different, didn't you boy? Thought maybe I should command the river to part? Or perhaps demand it allow me to walk across its back and keep my feet dry?'  
Those rich, brown eyes bored into mine and I could not help but cry out.  
'Yes! What use are powers if you never use them? …if you have any powers at all…' I muttered. I felt betrayed by my master, choosing me to suffer under his teaching, and I wanted to share that hurt.  
He laughed at me, a full belly laugh that stung me like the blows from a fist, as if my complaints were humorous in their childishness.  
'Ah my boy, you have no idea what it is to be shaman.' He began to wring out his soggy old robe. 'You still believe that a shaman commands the elements, compels them to his desires. You are wrong. A shaman and the spirits are in a partnership, and we can only ask them for their help, as they may ask of us. We can never compel them.' He turned to look at me, his face serious, red hair spilling down his narrow shoulders, 'The reason you have not seen any spirits is that you have been waiting for me to teach you how to command them.  
That day will never come'  
My eyes must have been wide, for he saw right through me, that gaze _did_ far, only not into the distance, but into the hearts and souls of people. I _had_ been waiting for a lesson, I had made no entreaties of my own.  
'Maybe now you will comprehend that you will never see a spirit until you ask one to show themself to you.'  
A hard look and then he turned away, the story of Maleek's Sacrifice already droning out. I thought I was angry. I cycled through a dozen retorts that might shout at his back, but one by one they died in my throat. Instead, I resolved to try to summon a spirit that very night.

And so I succeeded in conjuring my first spirit, a playful and delightful ember, but the lessons did not end there.  
My master found me trying my best to walk across a puddle without getting my toes wet. A hard cuff against the back of my head soon put an end to that experiment.  
After I had pulled myself out of the puddle and poured the muddy water from my ears I found him squatting, picking at his long white teeth with a bone.  
Almost casually, Raleek asked his question.  
'Our hunters have had no luck in finding the talbuk herds this season. What would you advise my young student?'  
I paused and stayed silent until I could squat opposite him, examining the state of my own teeth. By this point I had come to know the mannerisms of my master, and knew that casualness of his voice belied the fact that this would be a test. I thought carefully, my mind running through all that I had learned of the tools at the disposal of the shaman. I couldn't help but smile; I had my answer.  
'Master, I would claim the shoulder-blade of one of the talbuks the hunters have killed, and give it to the fire, let the animal spirit draw a map on the bone to show us where they have hidden.'  
I didn't look up at the master so didn't see the flat of his hand coming.  
'Idiot child.'  
I was still dazed when the hand grabbed the scruff of my neck and pulled me to my feet.  
'Come with me boy, you need teaching.'  
Stumbling behind Raleek, more dragged than walking, it was a while before I realised where he was taking me, who he was taking me to see.  
Old Gromold had once been the premier hunter of the clan, but his time had long since passed. His spine was bent with age and weakness, and he could no longer pull a bow or heft a javelin. None doubted his glory or his skills, but many of the younger braves had no memories of Gromold in his prime and the great bounties he had delivered to the clan.  
There was nothing overt or obvious about his slow marginalization, and the destructions of the man's pride, but just as everyone could see it happening, no one stood in its path, least not that I could see.  
The hut was already full of the pungent white smoke of the rustleaf herb, and I had to cough to clear my throat and that was probably a mistake, the thick clogging my lungs and quickly making my head spin. Raleek seemed completely unaffected by it, standing straight in the hut, shaking Gromold's arm firmly, wrist to wrist, a warrior's grip. There were only two seats, which the hunter and shaman filled very quickly, so I sank to the packed mud gratefully, the cooler, clearer air at the floor allowing me to breathe deeply for the first time since entering the hut.  
The two rocs seemed to talk of nothing, mindless chatter about the unusually warm summer and the blind stupidity of the younger generations, but I soon noticed a pattern in Raleek's conversation. The shaman asked questions, offered little of his own opinions and nodded sagely at the old hunter's words. Like dancers, both were aware of where the conversation was going, but neither seemed in any rush to get there. Occasionally I was asked for my views, but it was more an excuse for the two men to share a knowing, pitying glance.  
It was like a story, played out between three actors and I knew my part was that of the ignorant youth.  
Eventually, as the drunken fog got thicker and thicker, and I began to rock in place, my body not used to the intoxicating fumes, the two elders steered the conversation to the paucity of the talbuk in their usual grazing grounds.  
Gromold took a deep suck of the worn pipe that lived between his cracked lips and told a story from when he was a young hunter, when the summer had been unusually hot. Then, as now, the talbuks were nowhere to be found, and it had only been when the legendary stalker Bral had returned from a full moon of solo hunting, a stag slung across his scarred shoulders that they had learned in the rare dry seasons the talbuk herds migrated up into the foothills to hidden springs of fresh water.  
It was a story I had never heard before, but even in my haze of rustleaf I could see the twinkle in my master's eye and the corresponding smile curl up on Gromold's lips, though the hunter tried to hide it.  
Some quickly spoken banalities later and I was le from the hut. My master allowed me time to lean over and drag in some of the clean air outside the hut – the fog of rustleaf taking its time to leave my system.  
'Master, why did you do that? Would it not have been quicker to consult with the spirits? And more accurate?'  
He looked down at me, lower tusks peeking out of his lips as he began to grin.  
'Ah student, you still do not know what it is to be shaman.' A hand was placed on my shoulder.  
'The powers the spirits gift are the least of what makes us shaman. Our responsibility lies with the clan, guiding it to prosperity and strength – and that means keeping our brothers and sisters strong. The knowledge and experience that the elders like Gromold possess is a resource that the clan cannot afford to lose, and it costs me nothing but a headache to remind him of this truth. Moreover, this will remind the lodges of the riches of his memories and just why he was the finest hunter this clan had produced.' He settled down beside me, his thin frame still managing to command my attention.  
'Would you have us running to the spirits every time the weather changes? No, a shaman must use every resource at his disposal to guide his clan – he should not be expected to know everything, but instead how to cultivate this knowledge in his charges.  
Do you see my student?'  
I was not sure I did, but I nodded anyway. Whatever the case, I did recognize the new strength in Gromold's step as he went out to instruct the hunters as to the location of the talbuks' hidden grazing grounds.  
I learned much under the tutelage of Raleek, a great man and a great shaman.  
It would have been easier had he been a bad man.

In the end, it was love that destroyed my master. A certain lack of…perspective. Can he be blamed? No, for the perspective that would have been required is available only to the elements.  
Hence.

The earth tremors. This is a fact well known to shamans, and they few know, unlike the multitudes, that it is for reasons of nature not malice that the skin of rock and soil shifts.  
This of course was of little consolidation as me and my master ran back towards our village. Many years had passed and even I, student as I still was, could sense the rumbling excitement of the earth spirits as they bucked and trembled with febrile anticipation. Raleek could see further than I, and without a word, he had dropped his bundle of herbs we had been collecting and fled down the slope.  
It was then that the world began to shake and I could hear the cries of consternation from our people as we reached the outskirts of the village. Already some of the more quick-minded of the orcs were streaming from their huts, expressions of confusion and fear on their faces.  
My master had stopped, arms reaching towards the ground, his thin muscles straining and his eyes rolled back into his skull.  
I was growing fearful, I had never seen my master like this, so obviously alarmed, so obviously in communication with the spirits – he had never before so quickly relied on their aid. I slowed my breathing and let the veil of the astral plane drop before my eyes, looked into another world layered on top of ours. Unlike in the world of the flesh, where he was unprepossessing and slight, in the spirit world, Raleek was a colossus, bristling with his power, his eyes flashing with the Storm.  
And here did not reach towards the earth.  
I looked at his hands and could see a mass of rock limbs grasping them, holding tight, so tight that I could see Raleek straining to stay on his feet. My gaze travelled downward towards my village, towards all that I could call home and family.  
And I recoiled in horror.  
Where to mortal eyes there was a collection of huts and other orcish buildings, shaking perhaps, but no more than that, my spirit eyes showed me a maelstrom. Earth spirits in their hundreds, dancing and swirling, I could see what was coming, the ground tearing apart, swallowing our village, slaying them all.  
And Raleek held it all together with will alone.  
And he was failing.  
In a voice that required no breath, though it leaked pain with every word, my master called out.  
'Spirits! Elements! Attend me!'  
There was a cracking of stone and dust rushed up the slope towards us, billowing into a towering pillar that despite having no face, turned its regard upon us.  
**-Raleek, we heed your summons, faithful one-**  
Normally when dealing with the elemental elders, there is bargaining and ritual, meant to appease and wheedle concessions from, but there was no time.  
'Earth spirit, I beg you, help me! Stop your playful children, I beg you!'  
Hearing the desperation in my master's normally confident voice but me deeply, and I silently added my own will to his prayer.  
The dust pillar turned to gaze at the village below is, just as I noticed some blood leaking from my master's ears, and bruises froming at the joints of his arms.  
**-Why should I stop them?-** the spirit continued, its thundering voice yet placidly calm, **-As you well know shaman, the earth must move. The orc race will continue, even as these few die-**  
We were both frozen in place, stunned by the uncaring brutality of the spirit, as it began to fall once more to nothing.  
Then, a shout, and the unsheathing of a cold, cold will, like the press of a blade against blood-warmed skin, just as shocking.  
'No! I will not allow it!' Raleek straightened to his full, massive height, arms flexing as he gathered the spirits in his arms. 'You elements do not understand what it is to be shaman!' He yelled, 'You _will_ do as I command!'  
Each word was like a fist pounding into my stomach, and I could barely breathe. Earth trembled, dust billowing as it was forced upright once more, the anger and power in my master compelling, forcing the elder spirit to hold the crust of the world together. From the corner of my eye I could see orcs, my people, beginning to move towards us, out of harm's way.  
But no will could match the implacable might of the spirit lords. And as much as I wanted my master to succeed, for his desperate, disgusting gambit to work, I knew in my heart and my head that it would not.  
The roar that shook the ground as Earth broke free of Raleek's will was almost defeaning and the larger boulders that had not moved since the times of the glaciers rolled free of their perches, thumbing like a god's fist on an immense drum.  
**-We cannot be compelled-**  
There was a crack, a crack like a spine breaking and Raleek's arms were torn loose from the spirits that he had held onto for so impossibly long. Dust billowed, huge and terrifying, like a wave waiting to crash down over us and the anger that infused it was like a charge in the air.  
**-We reject you Raleek. From this day forth the spirits shall be deaf to your pleas. You are shaman no more-**  
A yawning mouth had opened where our village had once stood, swallowing even the screams of our families. It swallowed too the great spirit who had condemned my master, the dust sifting to nothing in a moment.

The orcs who had survived, their shock-wide eyes on us, they could not see his huge spirit form drifting apart, his guardian spirits and bound allies winging off him. All they could see was a man, a man slowly dropping to his knees.  
We were alone there on that ridge and I could not think what to do. I was numb, not yet knowing that only my young brother had survived the taking and not the words to consol this man, my master, who had spent his whole life in service, to the spirits, to his clan, and had just watched it all come to nothing.

'Reject me?  
'No – I reject you…'


	6. Chapter 6

**-**_**Present day**_**-**

Rutgar strode into the Warleader's chambers, only to find the Spurned sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, five small stone tree models set out in front of him, tiny fey lights spinning around and about the bare branches of four of the figurines, while the last was dark.  
The Chorusman stopped and stared at the gnarled warlock who had not deigned to acknowledge him.  
'Where is he Raleek?' he finally asked, keeping his frustration of a tight leash.  
If the warlock looked up, Rut could not see it from underneath his all-encompassing hood. A twisted finger tapped the one stone tree that was not alive with lights.  
'Where is my fifth totem Rutgar?' Raleek returned, his voice calm.  
Rut scowled, one hand automatically dropping to the head of a hatchet.  
'I do not report to you Spurned. Where is he?'  
'It is his will in this that you tell me. His plans must not be delayed by your…dislikes.'  
There were only two people who could speak to Rutgar in such a tone without feeling a measure of his wrath, and it stung him that Raleek was one of them. Not because of his magic, Rut was not afraid of his demoncant, but because the Warleader had extended his protection over the man.  
A couple of deep breaths to rein in the burgeoning anger and Rut dropped the mask of indifference before speaking.  
'One of the teams your requested has not returned to the Camp. I sent out a couple of grunts to their assigned location, but there was no sign of either their bodies or the totem.'  
Raleek hissed, 'I asked you to find me good men Rutgar!'  
The masked slipped for a moment, rut frowning, silver capped tusks showing in the traditional face of challenge.  
'They are _all_ good men warlock.' Raleek snorted at that, but Rut bulled on, 'I believe that Cort and Sawdust were killed by those unaligned night elves we have been getting reports about.'  
A hand rubbing his grey-beared chin under his cowl.  
'Dead of Winter…'  
'Warlock?' Rut asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice.  
Raleek turned to face the warrior finally, his now bright green eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the Warleader's chambers.  
'These Kaldorei, the ones who have been murdering so many of our brothers and sisters, though they do not march under the Silverwing banner. Saemonvragas has given us a name.'  
'The Dead of Winter?'  
Raleek nodded, 'They do not answer to him, beyond the respect for the position he has stolen, and they have avowed vengeance against us. From what he has communicated to me, they count some great names in their number.' The gleam of yellow-stained teeth. 'These elves will not fall your ranks Rutgar.'  
The Chorusman swirled saliva around his mouth, fighting the urge to spit, stubby fingers tapping against the heads of his hatchets. 'Then they are the ones who have been killing our grunts and peons? If all I have heard is true warlock, then we have failed to slay even one of them in all their attacks. They might become a problem…' Rut allowed his voice to trail off, eyes locked the warlock's own.  
A shallow nod, 'The must needs be dealt with, the Warleader is in agreement with this assessment. I have already begun a ritual binding to send against them-'  
Rut cut in, stepping toward the robed and hooded figure on the floor, 'No!'  
The wide-shoulder orc, built like a siege engine, his skin mottled with deep brownish-green marks shook his head, his intricately braided hair clicking with the many fetishes tied into it. 'I have had enough of your foul magic warlock. It offends my every breath. We shall meet these elves with sword and axe.  
The Chorus of Iron will take them – we can afford them that honour at least.'  
Raleek let out a racking cough, his body heaving as he laughed. Rut knew that under his robes, the warlock's body was twisted and broken with tightly clenched muscles and oddly growing bone – the price of the vast powers he now commanded.  
'So be it Chorusman, but allow me a small gift to aid your hunt.'  
The warrior narrowed his eyes, 'What is this gift?'  
'Allow me to find them for you, tell you where this Dead of Winter hides.'  
Rut sneered, '…how?'  
The Warlock turned back to the stone trees, fingers of one hand cracking as he spread them wide, 'The totems that your men placed, they were traps, lures for foolish spirits.' One of the small lights that had been circling the branches broke away, growing brighter, increasing in size, though to Rut it looked less like it was getting bigger and more like it was approaching from a great distance. 'And so I trap the night elf spirits that are part of the very earth we walk on, making this place suitable for us, for orcs.' A face appeared in the white-blue glow, a kaldorei face twisted into rage, mouth open in an unending roar that no one could hear, but dripped vehemence. 'And what is trapped…can be tamed.' The warlock straightened out his arm with a jerk and the wisp recoiled as if lashed by an invisible whip.  
'And so I shall turn their very eyes against them.'

* * *

Iyokus desperately parried another furious assault, his huge stone blade toning sonorously as twin felsteel blades swept against it.  
The orc was pressing him back, her long daggers giving him no time to think, to be proactive. Each step back took him closer to the bank of the river and the footing was getting treacherous. He didn't dare to look back for even a moment to place his next step, didn't dare take his eyes off the flashing green blades of his opponent.  
His eyes were wide and his breathing was ragged and wheezing as she attacked again, high with one blade, low with the other. One sword he deflected with his weapon, but he was forced to turn aside the other with his forearm. With a yell of pain, and cradling his arm, he stumbled, trying to open some space, a bit of room to think. He could see his opponent smirking at her partner, the grin of a predator who has found an unexpectedly easy prey, the cat that has caught the mouse and is considering what games to play.  
Iyokus was disgusted with himself, it was not so long ago that he would have taken both of these orcs without shedding a drop of his own blood, but now– No! Don't think like that, don't think of _anything_ but right now you damned fool!  
This was the problem, he couldn't _think_. The roar of the river was loud in his ears, the creatures of the forest seemed to be screaming at him and he couldn't stop trying to look at everything – and still her swords seemed to come out of nowhere.  
A thrust blade and a breathless twisting and white hot pain skittered along his ribs. He stepped back again and grimaced as the cool water of the river sucked at his foot.  
His sword was heavy in his hands, clumsy, and he hadn't been able to make a single attacking move against the orc since their engagement had begun. He couldn't help but despair that unless something changed…well…  
He was going to die.

'The water's great you know, you don't have to stay there on the bank.'  
Iyokus laughed at his own joke and cupped more of the clear, cool water up to his chest, rubbing clean the scarred, muscled skin. The wisp, of course, simply stared back at him.  
It was an odd one indeed. Iyokus had never really got on with the nature spirits, or ancestors, depending who you asked, probably because he was as irreverent as they come and had no Kaldorei ancestors who would speak up for him. But even so, this one was unusual.  
It had been following him since he had arrived in Darkshore, staying an almost uniform distance behind him. The warrior had tried communicating, thinking that maybe the spirit was trying to pass on a message to him, and he thought he could see the face in all the light trying to mouth something, but it was too distorted to decipher.  
Well, if an ancestor wanted to watch him bathing half-naked, then that was none of his concern, he had been leered over by worse in his years, that gorilla for example… Anyway, he had more important things on his mind and had come home to Ashenvale for a chance to think over them in peace.

The trail had dried up. The mage had been an enormous waste of his gold, telling him only that they had teleported somewhere into Stormwind, the sheer amount of ambient magics in the human capital disguising their trail. The guardsman he had paid enough to get into early retirement had been marginally more useful. One of the multitudes of dark-cloaked figures that go in and out of the gates that night had stuck in his mind, a man with a noble cast and an oddly ageless face. Something about that description rung some bells in Iyokus's memory… if only he could identify what.  
He sighed and sluiced water over his head, feeling the sweat of the day sliding off him. It was sweltering in full plate these days, even for him who had trekked across desert and fel-blasted wasteland.  
He would have to talk to Cail, she was the one with the kind of head suited to this kind of thing. He smiled and flicked the surface of the river. He would have to see her anyway… he missed her.

Perhaps it was because he was wrapped up in his imagination, or perhaps the Shorning, as he now called it, had been more disabling then he thought, but the normally observant Iyokus did not notice that the wisp had disappeared until the two orcs greeted him.  
'Lok'tar,' the male said, tusks bared.  
Iyokus spun in the river, hands first up in a defensive position and then slowly lowering to his sides. His gaze danced over them, a male and a female. She had a shaven head except for a high ponytail, and two blades sheathed under each arm, while he appeared unarmed except for wearing a wicked pair of metal gauntlets, studded with spikes and shearing edges. Neither wore a uniform, which meant they were not Warsong grunts. So they were either independents in Ashenvale, drawn here for the plunder and a chance to kill elves, or… Iyokus swore under his breath… the Warsong Chorus of Iron.  
He turned to look at his sword, stabbed into the bank with the rest of his equipment, his bags and armour. His mace had fallen under his breastplate. He could feel the orcs following the movement of his gaze and swung back to face them, neither had made a move.  
He edged closer to the bank.  
The male spoke again, in Orcish, which Iyokus had picked up a rudimentary understanding of over the course of the Third War, 'You are Iyokus, of the Dead of Winter.'  
The white-maned elf cocked his head, it didn't really sound like a question.  
'You heard of me then?' he grinned up at them, angling for time as he inched closer and closer to his weapons.  
The female whispered something that he could not quite make out and the two sniggered. Iyokus continued grinning, displaying a confidence belying the pounding in his head.  
_…fucktheChorustwoofthemfuck…_  
The male, whose arms were oversized with muscle, put a hand flat against his chest.  
'I am Gant, called the Breaker,' he pointed at the woman beside him, 'and this, Lament. Of the Warleader's Chorus of Iron.'  
Iyokus was desperately hoping his hands would dry before he had to pick anything up and asked distractedly, 'Why I care?'  
Gant continued, 'When we send you to stand before your ancestors, you will have names to honour us.'  
Everything froze then as the warriors matched gazes. The river gurgled quietly and even the birds in the trees seemed to sense the brewing confrontation.  
Iyokus broke the moment, leaping from the water, diving towards his sword. His hands wrapped around the handle and in one movement, coming to a stand, sword pulled free from the ground, a clod of earth flying into the air.  
Lament draws her swords in silence, and attacks.

'Stop playing with him Lament, the others have been found.'  
He feels beat.  
It hurts to breathe, his arm is slick with his own blood and the pain makes it hard to concentrate. Her blade is pricking into his breastbone, holding him in place as she turns to face Gant, saying something with a chuckle that rips away the last shreds of his dignity, some sly joke about if all the elves are like this, then Ashenvale will be theirs within the month.  
His sword hangs loosely in one hand, tip tugged by the current of the river and slowly, dropping for the last time, his eyes close.  
It is not in his nature to give up. Oh, in the thousands of years of bloodshed he has dropped his weapon many a time, but never has his soul been cowed.  
The orcs continue talking. There is still time.  
He knows he has given no reason to be thought worthy, but he has to try to take that gambit that always felt so sure in the years behind him, the reaching inside himself, to that core of red hot rage within him. That hand that would take a hold of him, pull him up from whatever pit of pain and weariness and despair that battle would toss him into. Pull him out and empower him, give him the strength and skill to carry on no matter what the cost, drag him on his knees to blood drenched survival.  
He reaches, straining, expecting nothing, expecting to fall, and never again rise.

And is caught.  
It is loose at first; the merest whisper of salvation, and then tighter, firmer, more sure.  
It is different; it is not the burning, almost painful fury that has been his master for so long. No, it is old and gray, pitted and rusted with age, but somehow also familiar, a flavour that is not so removed from him, like the scent of a father.  
He looks inward, deeper, the pain receding, the mists of doubt fading, and finds himself looking, not at the red mask he expects, but… his reflection.  
'It is you,' he whispers  
'It is I,' he thunders  
His vision sharpens, no more do the sights and sounds of the forest distract, everything is razor sharp clear. The hand holding him up morphs, transforms into the solid, oh so comforting weight of the grip of a sword.  
A weapon  
It feels right in his callused hand  
He grins

A scant moment has passed since his eyelids drooped.  
They snap open, flashing with blazing amber fire. A sword blade pricks his into his breastbone, a thin trickle of blood winding its way down the maze of scars on his chest.  
A mistake that.  
There is a spray of water as the monolithic stone sword slices towards Lament. The orc is very very good and leans on her sword while bringing her other up to block the attack, but even one-handed the claymore cannons into her thin blade and sends her spinning away with the impact.  
No matter how strong she thought herself, there was no way she could hope to pierce his sternum like that.  
A mistake that.  
Iyokus's other hand is on the grip of his sword in a moment and he hammers her back, using his weapon's greater reach to keep her on the retreat, the ring of steel on stone and her grunts the accompanying harmony to the numbing of her arms.  
_Hah_  
He can see the other orc Gant closing in his periphery, he will need to end this quickly. A low thrust gives him the opening he needs and slams his sword down on the thin blade. The green sword slides between the two stone flanges that make up his great claymore, shot through with the purple crystals the draenai value so highly.  
_Hah_  
A wrench of his wrist and the handle is torn from her hand. Her eyes widen as she locks onto the furnaces of his own. She is an experienced swordswoman, she knows exactly what is coming.  
_Hah_  
The sword cuts under her left arm, shattering through her ribs and biting as deep as her spine. Iyokus pulls the blade free in a rainbow of blood and ducks under Gant's fist as it whistles through the air where his head had just been.  
Lament is dead as leaps back, raising his sword above his head in a ready stance. Gant is growling, the low rumble of a plains predator.  
'Come.'

Iyokus sluiced water down his side, cheek twitching as he cleaned his side. That Lament had opened up quite a nasty gash along his ribs, one that would need seeing to before too long.  
Something to worry about later, he thought. If he had the orcs right, the Chorus would be after the others and since they had managed to find him, he had no doubt they would be on the trail of the others in no time.  
He began putting on his armour. Green, Celia… he had no concerns that the others would be able to take care of themselves, but he was damned if people he cared about were going to have to fight for their lives alone.  
He stepped casually over the body of Gant as he retrieved his mace, strapping it to his back beside his sword. The Chorusman had put up quite the fight, and Iyokus had the wounds to prove it. But in the end, the reach and weight of his sword had told, as the armless corpse could attest to.  
Another moment and he was gone, his horned helmet masking a grim smile.  
Shorn he may be, but Iyokus had finally found himself again.


	7. Chapter 7

The two walked through the forest, their steps sure and unhurried. They walked in way that even the most grizzled and feral of humans could never hope to match, for humans only lived in opposition to nature, whereas these two looked as though they had sprung from the earth itself. They walked in silence and had done for some time, guided only by the light of their eyes and the stars above.

They were both troubled by the totem that Nhaera had found and Fierse felt his mind drawn back to that wicked object time and time again. All of the druids of the Winter, including Cecelia who walked beside him, had examined the thing with little to show for it. It was simply anathema to their druidic magic and to Fierse, who was so deeply marked by his calling, even being it the presence of the totem was sickening, as if his spirit was being tugged from his body.

That the orcs were creating and using such despicable things worried him greatly, and he had fled to the forests to settle his mind and restore his balance.

He noticed Cecelia slowing beside him and turned to look, only now noticing the expression of consternation on her face.

'What is it Cecelia, what's wrong?

'Can't you feel it? What's happened here?' There was a note of horror in Cecelia's voice and Fierse quickly quested out with his senses, annoyed at his own selfish introspection.

And felt nothing.

He whirled in place, golden eyes wide and green hair fanning about around him. Everything was as it should be, the plants and trees healthy and the evening sounds of the various creatures filled their ears – but there was something dreadfully wrong, as if they stood on ground that was paper thin, that could give way at any time should they put a foot wrong.

Cecelia gripped his arm and moved closer to him.

'What could have done this Fierse, have you ever heard of its like?' She asked, her horror quickly suppressed and replaced with concentration and concern.

The older druid did not answer her, instead he dropped to his haunches and thrust his hands into the earth. The soil felt good, rich and dark, teeming with life – and yet, there was something missing. At his shoulder, Cecelia continued, her fingers nervously toying with her white hair.

'It is as if the Dream has been stripped away from this place. But how can that be?'

Fierse nodded and got to his feet, brushing his hands off.

'I have seen things like this before. Sometimes when a demon dies its evil will sink into the soil, tainting its virility. And the Scourge murder life wherever they walk.' He narrowed his eyes, squinting at the forest around him as if that would force it to give up its secrets to his sight, 'but this is yet different, for nature does not sicken and die here – it is just...bereft.'

Cecelia put her hand on his shoulder, 'Can we repair it?'

'We must.'

The two druids fell into consultation then, discussing ways in which they might encourage the remaining ancestor spirits to inhabit the defiled ground, of ways to spread the Dream once more. For all their familiarity with the forest, their concentration was bent towards the enormous task that lay ahead of them, and none was on their surroundings. Not even a friendly treant could whisper a warning on the winds for the ground they walked on was dead to such spirits. And so they remained ignorant of the danger that stalked them.

* * *

War was a song. That much was evident.

The way the orcs saw it, it was a crescendo of bellowing roars and the clash of iron, thundering refrains played in the rumble of entire clans charging and the screams of the wounded. But others knew that there was more to it than that, that every song need its moments of silence, when even a breath would ruin the creation. Every chorus was composed of music and its absence.

The kiss of the dagger as it slides past ribs, the sigh of air as the arrow speeds through the air. There was quiet music in the strum of light feet running through dark corridors and hush of hiding from vigilant eyes in deep shadows.

The two trolls moved like four-legged spiders, their long sinuous limbs making not a sound as they pulled on branches and pushed off the detritus of the forest floor. They wore form-fitting leather and all their metal had been tightly strapped down and blackened. Even their tusks had been discoloured so as not to give away a revealing flash of white against the verdant environment. Heads slung low to the ground, creeping forward on fingers and toes, the trolls watched their prey with steel-edged intensity.

Unlike the orcs, whose home was the endless plain, where the horizon met the with the sky, these trolls were Darkspear by birth, jungle trolls, where the sky was married to the sea and assaulted by the trees which longed for the sun. They understood the interplay between light and shadow and how to disappear from every sense. They would not crash through the undergrowth like a squad of battle-mad orcs – their prey would not even know their faces as they died.

They had been given trollish names upon their birth.

They had taken new ones upon joining the Silence of the Chorus of Iron.

* * *

Whisper locked gazes with Chortle and pointed at the small-nosed female and then at himself. Chortle nodded and began to move smoothly to his left, to find a position that would allow him a clear throw at the antlered male. If he had known what to look for, he was sure Chortle would have been able to disappear completely from his sight.

Focussing on the task at hand, he reached to his waist and soundlessly pulled a steel dart from its sheathe, the blackened blade glinting wetly with poisonous promise. Holding a wide stance, with his arm poised, Whisper waited for the perfect moment to present itself. Across from him, Chortle mirrored his stance almost exactly, like his very own lighter-skinned reflection.

They had been tracking the pair of elves for some hours now, led in to position by two of the Spurned's spirits. They had let night fall around them, the descending darkness bothering them even less than the muted roars of the denizens of Ashenvale. There were no crystal-hided, glass-eyed basilisks here, no nests of conniving raptors to lead them into traps. Whisper felt almost safe traversing the forest. He had let the druids pick their path, increasingly happy as they had led Chortle and him towards one of the totems. Raleek had briefed the Chorus that as the totems' area of efficacy grew, the druids would be weakened.

Unlike their orc allies, the Silence rarely worried about the honour of the kill - better the murder that could not be denied. In the end, the Loas would respect the skills garnered and the blood they split.

The moment arrived, the female stood, presenting her back as a wide target and Whisper quickly flicked his gaze at Chortle who was watching, waiting for his move.

Whisper whipped his arm forward, the long limb propelling the blade with incredible speed. A fraction of a second later and Chortle did the same. The two darts flew through the air, Whisper's just clipping a lead and the female whirled at the noise, the steel dart passing through the skin at her side. Whisper swore under his breath and jumped aside, swiftly finding a new position to keep the prey confused and his whereabouts unknown.

With his dart only bleeding the girl, the poison would not have time to act and she would have only be warned, not wounded.

At least Chortle's throw had been better – lodging in the male's back. Even now he could hear the elf roaring and stumbling as the soporific poison worked its way into his body. Whisper chanced a look at his targets. The male was down on one knee, trembling with the effort. But where the slightly-built female had been was now stood a monstrous owlbear, her stag-like antlers anointing her forehead like a crown.

The moonkin creature hooted quietly to herself, big , taloned hands held out in front of herself as it scanned the trees. The elf as her side groaned and slumped to his back.

Whisper grinned as he drew another dart from his waist. He was confident in Chortle and his abilities to remain unseen and the druid had just presented him with a larger target.

Just as he was about to throw again, something caught his attention. The forest seemed to brighten with light. He whipped his head around, trying to find the source of the light when it suddenly became clear. He tipped his head back.

_The stars! There was something wrong with the stars!_

Whisper's powerful thighs propelled him away just as a white-purple light punched into the ground where he had been crouched just a moment before. Soil and greenery was thrown up and Whisper was chucked aside by the force of the impact. He rolled to his feet and dashed towards the beast as more stars crashed down behind him.

He had to disrupt her magic before one of the blasted things found him. The whump of the stars descent to earth got closer.

Chortle had the same idea and the two troll's burst into the clearing at the same time – the owlbear hooting in shock and wobbling backwards on her stubby, fat legs. In the sky, the heavens returned to normal as the druid's magic failed. Knives appeared in Whisper's hands as he sank into a low stance, a quiet, unsettling hissing coming from both him and Chortle.

Chortle inched forward only to have the owlbear hoot quietly. The moon ignited as a beam of white plummeted into the troll, pounding him head first into the ground. Whisper leapt forward and an arching slash scored across the druid's chest. The moonkin shrieked and flapped backwards.

From the corner of his eye he could see Chortle fighting his way back to his feet, but his attention was soon taken up with trying to dodge the balls of green energy that were fired at him. Despite her fearsome appearances, it was clear that she was afraid of engaging him up close. Whisper stepped around the bolts, curling and uncoiling like a snake to avoid their wrathful power.

He ducked under the sweep of a heavy, feathered arm and felt his dagger bite deep into flesh. He jumped back to avoid the clashing beak of the creature and stepped right into a vengeful spell. The green magic smashed into his chest, knocking him back, but Whisper shook off the effects, clearing his mind of the unnerving feeling of roots and insects crawling under his skin and the aching pain it induced. Chortle leapt to his side, daggers at the ready and a grim look on his pale face.

But the owlbear was gone. Once more to be replaced by the tuskless female.

Clearly her morphing spell had run its course. Whisper relaxed somewhat, no longer as worried of the damage she might cause.

Even so he flinched when she threw up her arm, a flash of rainbow light wriggling into the air. Nothing happened, and Chortle chortled as was his wont to do when circumstances allowed.

The girl did not seem worried though, in fact she appeared relieved, cradling her wounded arm and chest.

That was when the bear crashed into Chortle, a tidal wave of fur and teeth. The immense jaws locked around the troll's shoulder and clenched, blood spurting forth.

_The male! _

Chortle had been a fool not to slit his throat when he had the chance. The bitch must have cleansed the poison with that final spell!

Whisper could only watch in horror as his friend was forced to the ground by the weight of the bear, his daggers stabbing again and again into the giant's side, to no effect.

He turned and ran, the gurgles of Chortle harrying his step but he knew he could not take on two druids alone. He doubted that even his poisoned darts would have had an effect on that monster.

Trees flashed by and he kept one eye on the heavens above, mindful of any sudden changes.

* * *

Whisper made his way east, back towards the Post and safety, his mind seething with thoughts of bloody vengeance.

He contented himself with the knowledge that the night elves' victory this night was hollow, that the Warleader would exact their debt of deaths a hundredfold.

Still though, the bear's roar haunted him.

* * *

Fierse sembled back to his elven form as Cecelia watched anxiously, concerned with the blood dripping down his bare torso and matting his hair. He licked his red teeth and looked down at the body of the troll he had destroyed.

'Much of our powers were not available to us here,' he said quietly, clenching and unclenching his fists, 'I called to the trees for aid but they could not hear me.'

Cecelia nodded behind him, 'I tried to call up roots to bind them, but they wouldn't come,' she said sadly, gently stroking the cut in her arm, the wound closing further with each motion.

They stood together in silence, Fierse harnessing the animal rage he still felt and putting it to good use strengthening his battered body.

'The situation is more dire than we imagined Celia.'

Fierse felt that was something of an understatement.


End file.
